i have words, letters , synonyms hanging like branches of temple. point of emotions. wars. i am not alive, i am hanging like joints. these ephemeral stages that are bulbs during the day. for no reason, i am damp and moist. Forest with twigs lit my entire body.
Is it the poetry spreading like a disease now? i see no moon…i see only a Point. point of love. Matrices. Sky impregnated with moisture.
for all i remember the morning was obscure,
misty and dewy,
almost like a suicide.
he stood flowing, hopping from city to city
with mirrors broken,
a kiss forgotten.
i drew a circle that day to keep myself safe, i always do that.
a circle with mangroves, swamps.
fingers / traipsing my mollusc body.
i had a fever.
cold and shaky like a shadow.
i wanted to perch on the footsteps you walked in.
it was that simple,
hallucinating your white-blue shirt.
oh the smell we created like chemicals.
a cadence you left still shines like the moon.
i keep it in the almirah i created,
my staicase. a circle : of all the beginning.
I sit and fall like meteors.
and i capture your emblematic threads of wilderness.
a point of my sustenance.
its like lilies.
diluted heaps of blue tears.
scalded and indexed.
all the marking onto my heavy lips.
My lips are even today,
with plum shade paint
dancing on the rim of sorbet.
its like white wildflower,
a fish with black scales dancing in its slumber.
Piquant, small pebbles cascacding from tears.
salty as skin. salty as dream.
its like mirror,
sequin shades of lover.
i am wondersruck galaxy.
These veins in my hands run fever now.
Thank you dear readers for always reading my words and leaving your lovely comments. I truly appreciate it.
Often, I am a whole another woman.
A woman who sighs with almond breaths,
oceanic concave shape of my face,
something like an oval,’with fingers typing “slow, breathe”
somewhere in this moist air.
This woman is inside my onion mind,
slithering an oculus bowl of chipped nights. ah, eh, ah, eh
the voices are hollow,
and the dreams are crippled.
They modify too often, along with my neighbour’s talk.
I hear it like a tunnel.
Often, i am complete,
the stem of a leaking shoot.
The colours of my lovers words suffice the pain.
it happens, during the night,
i am not a sex object.
He makes me full.
Often, i just close my eyes,
these eyelids refuse to sleep,
they rather douse its callous mind in pain,
sobbing and sniffing
mirror plays a friend, too.
embossing my pain, love, all at once.
i have lived a thousands lives,
yet this winter is like a moth.
it has eaten me up,
from my toenail to my collarbone.
now i am naked. skin in pieces.
this winter, shallow waters of broken promise.
this winter, a conch doused in anaemic water.
i am no human today.
i weep like my ceilings.
wrapped up in my own silent time.
Who would pick me up?
like moon conjuctured upon my laps,
drawing seismic patterns.
its all about this winters.
P.s I may be taking an off from here. You all still can find me on Instagram by the same name.
i guess, at times i walk on the waters,
the ebb, a reminder of my narrow chin.
i have a thing for kissing life.
and i do it precisely well.
i kiss and drink the sweetness,
the stars and the sound of the bells.
i metamorph into a syllabus of a veritable smirk.
dreams hold my mouth and put me back to sleep until i am awake like colours,
vibrant and throbbing a dark spot.
at times, i become seasons,
my body, a criss-cross of lanterns.
it’s small and beautiful.
And that’s how i inhale smoke,
my voice tore away like sunsets falling into the rivers.
streams of gushing ripples on my cheeks.
there was a time once,
when poetry was all Mediterranean Sea to me,
with potholes and hammers,
squirming noises of silence.
The semesters of trimmed life makes me a moon,
a person in illusion,
a mirage rising inside the languid skin.
i see you spreading like blob of colors
sunset inside your mouth,
a hundred nights of sickness grows.
somewhere, arms growing like a living room.
mother, your chin spewed chemicals,
on the night I was born.
1:00 am. a night that swallowed both of us.
You carried varicose time on your sickening waist,
like time made you of clay.
and you heard my voice of lace mucus.
screams growing like fingernails.
you said i must grow, where ever planted.
mosaic pieces stuck to my pharynx.
big- boned, thin legged,
i am 26 today mother, i still bleed,
the way you did last night.
am i you? or life is ingested like you
into my system.
i try shutting my eyes,
a thing you detached from your wrist.
the nights during winter are bizarre,
you see everything naked,
the whirring sound as a backdrop
of things never seen,
the morbid, lifeless bed sheets screaming your voice
the broken knob from my gas stove, still clicking.
yellow segments coming off from my wall,
and i hear it all, like never before
a silk in my hand,
there is this couple, moaning next room,
and i absorb it like an art,
lying on my empty anaemic sofa,
I observe my black nail paint chipped yet gleaming somehow
eyes as heavy as thick air,
wrestling for vacuum in outh of tunnels
i think of breeze in autumn,
petrichor entering my womb
i think of anything but winters,
they slice a sickening trauma onto my bosom,
it’s quiet everywhere,
a spot in my iris, stubborn as a stain.
i can prick nakedness like a shadow.
gulping it, watching it till i die of this emptiness.